


Rest in Peace

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Insomnia, Post-Purgatory Dean, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s been two days since he reconnected with Dean via a Borax shower and a holy water facial and in that time Sam has come to acknowledge two things: number one, that despite the upheaval to his new life, he is utterly ecstatic to have Dean back and two, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared shitless by his big brother.</i>
</p>
<p>Sam needs to sleep, but he also needs to keep an eye on Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest in Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. Written for the February Challenge at hc_bingo . Prompts: Insomnia, Exhaustion, Substance Abuse, Wildcard - PTSD.

It’s been two days since he reconnected with Dean via a Borax shower and a holy water facial and in that time Sam has come to acknowledge two things: number one, that despite the upheaval to his new life, he is utterly ecstatic to have Dean back and two, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared shitless by his big brother.

He’s no stranger to the tell-tale signs of a life spent in battle – the thousand yard stare, insomnia and nightmares in equal measures, the drinking ‘just to take the edge off’ etc, but Dean, _this_ Dean, is like a poster boy for how war, no matter how glorious the victory or noble the cause, can _seriously_ fuck you up.

Dean smiles and it’s like being sliced with a razor. The expression never reaches his eyes, like it got diverted before it could be swallowed by the sheer emptiness in his brother’s gaze. As a result, it’s never expressing a genuine happiness and the coldness leaves Sam permanently on edge. 

He lay awake for hours last night, breathing steadily, feigning sleep. He tells himself that he wanted to keep a concerned eye on Dean, who made no moves to get into bed himself. Instead, he knows the truth is that he was just too freaked out by the statue sitting on the floor at the foot of the untouched bed to rest properly.

The fact that Dean spent the night that way _armed_ has done nothing to ease his worries any either.

As the hours pass, he realises he’s developed a morbid fascination with watching Dean’s reactions. His mind imagines appropriate metaphors: a coiled spring; a serpent ready to strike and they all highlight the fact that Dean is wired – and dangerous.

This point is eloquently made when, in the middle of the night, he inadvertently surprises Dean returning from the bathroom and gets a knife to his throat for his trouble.

“Dean!” he hisses. “It’s me!”

If anything, the grip tightens. He swallows, and is rewarded with a hairline slice to the soft flesh of his neck that instantly stings like a bitch. He daren’t move; even though their father trained them how to extricate themselves from situations like this, when the aggressor is his brother he knows he’s unlikely to come away unscathed. 

Despite the surge of adrenaline, he works to keep his voice calm and controlled.

“Dean. You need to listen to me, man.” He resists the urge to shift his stance because the slight height difference is straining his back. “I’m your brother. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He’s chilled by the throaty laugh at his ear. He realises that despite the tension of the situation, Dean is utterly calm. The chest pressed to his back rises and falls with smooth composure and for an instant he realises this is how he must have been while his body and soul were residing in separate locations.

“Dean, _please_. Let me go.”

It wasn’t intentional, but something in his voice must have spoken to the part of Dean that’s seemed absent since his return from Purgatory, and whether it’s love or the sense of duty Dean has worn since he was four years old, it’s this part of Dean that saves him. He’s unprepared when Dean shoves him hard – like he’s pushing Sam out of the way of a speeding truck – and then strides from the room.

They don’t speak about that incident again, but night after night Sam doesn’t sleep because Dean doesn’t either. He lies in the darkness, willing Dean to just get in bed and close his eyes but neither happens. The days turn into weeks. 

Sam studies his reflection in the mirror and is quietly horrified by what he sees. For a guy in his early thirties, he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t have such big bags beneath his eyes. He looks pale and wasted and he finds himself recalling a study that he learned about in a psychology lecture back at Stanford, about a guy that made a cat go crazy and die by depriving it of REM sleep. It’s depressing that he totally fucking gets it.

And yet Dean still looks like Dean – like he can take insomnia and shrug off its effects like it doesn’t matter. He professes that he’s okay and he’s readjusting just fine, but the truth is that he’s getting more and more dangerous by the minute.

It comes to a head after the situation with Cacao. As they drive away, Dean is on a high, talking about his life like he’s so much fucking _clarity_ and Sam finally snaps.

Dean looks at Sam like he’s taken up residency on that crazy street that his brother’s so keen on driving down. His expression transforms as Sam vents – first he looks like he has no idea what his brother is talking about, and then it darkens when Sam finally gets to the point. Sam’s got some medication that he wants Dean to take. If he doesn’t, then Sam’s leaving and he can drive down crazy street on his own.

To be fair, Sam didn’t plan on issuing an ultimatum, but the lack of sleep is fucking with his judgment and the words are out of his mouth before his brain can remind him that Dean doesn’t respond well to blackmail. He’s expecting to get a punch in the face when Dean sighs and says, “what medication?”

Any doubts Sam has about giving Dean the benzodiazepines evaporates when, two nights later, Dean occupies the other twin bed in their motel room and _actually goes to sleep._ Relief is a powerful sedative and he’s out like a light himself within minutes.

He tells himself it’ll be okay. Dean is better, he _is_. The drugs are a _good_ thing. He’s still telling himself that when Dean announces that he needs more of the pills, even though – if he’s been taking them in the quantities Sam specified – there would be plenty left. 

He tells himself, weeks later, that Dean’s inability to deal with the hellhound is just bad luck, but his brother’s razor-sharp abilities that he honed to perfection in Purgatory have been on the slide for a while now, dulled by the contents of a small plastic bottle. A bottle that Sam put into his hands.

He convinces Dean that he’s good to take on the trials. He’s doing them, to hell with what Dean thinks or wants. This one’s on Sam, because Dean’s latest mess is all _his_ doing.

All he wanted was more sleep.

**End**


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